


Frostflowers

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, filesharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Valentine's Day schmoop for ladyofdragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frostflowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/gifts).



“I don’t want to,” Drift said, folding his arms over his chassis, face settling into a scowl. The daylights were fading around them in a soft, gilding glow, limning his armor.

Wing would have sighed, if Drift didn’t look so almost comically sullen and out of place here, sitting in the Glass Gardens, sculptures of elegant shapes and bright, luminous colors swirling around him.  Really, he was a striking mech, or he could be, if he wanted to be. It was just a shame he seemed not to.  “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

The new blue optics rolled. “Yeah, fine. Ask. Answer’s still no.”

Wing couldn’t hide the almost fond laugh: Drift was nothing if not predictable.  And it was sort of endearing in a fashion. “I was going to ask if you wanted to fileshare.”

“Fileshare.” There was a twitch over the face, the scowl slipping for a klik.  “With me.”

“Yes, with you,” Wing said. 

“Why.”

“Why does anyone want to fileshare with another mech?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, the spaulders shifting, one bumping one of the sculptures behind it, setting off a small cascade of musical notes.  And Wing could see the sincerity in it: he really didn’t know. It struck Wing as infinitely sad, the way so many of Drift’s mannerisms did—hinting at a history of lack and neglect. No wonder he was so angry.

“Because I want to share with you.”

“You want to spy.”

“Drift,” Wing said, kicking his legs out along the crystalline gravel, “we have no interest in your war. I have no interest in your war.” And then, just to make sure it was perfectly clear, “I am interested in you.”

The mouth twitched, but it wasn’t in anger. It was something else. “Not much worth sharing.”

“Drift, if it’s yours, it is worth sharing.” Wing reached forward, boldly, resting a hand on Drift’s, his fingertips curling to brush—gently—over the cable hatch. 

Drift seemed at a loss, wanting to resist but not wanting to, teetering on an edge, almost wanting to give in, but needing an excuse, something that would let him keep his dignity.

“I could show you flying,” Wing said, softly.  A temptation, obvious and blunt, but it was the excuse the other needed: Wing could see his resistance crumble, overtaken by curiosity.  And he didn’t say it—he didn’t need to—but he rolled his wrist under Wing’s touch, offering the panel, willing, but shy.

It had been so long since Wing had connected with another mech that he felt a quickening in his own spark as he opened the hatch, unspooling a small length of the cable, inserting it into the jack in his own wrist.  He cycled a vent of air, as he felt the sudden new presence, like a thickening of space inside him, and a bright curiosity.

“Don’t know how,” Drift said—admitted. 

Wing nodded, and filtered through his memories, letting Drift watch as he sorted through his memory tagging system, until he selected one, offering to Drift to activate.

It was a bright memory: he’d chosen it for that reason.  It was bright sunshine, and the heat of twin suns on the top of his fuselage, and the cool air beneath his wings, lifting him up above the fascinating folded fabric of the land below: gullies and cuts, ridges and hills. It looked like some soft textile from up here, but he could feel Drift’s response, his grounder’s awareness that those valleys held threats, that climbing some of those slopes was often exhausting. 

The landscape was lit with snow, almost blindingly white, blue catching in the shadows like velvet.  The very air seemed to sparkle around him, ice crystals in the air glittering in the sunlight. 

He accelerated, in the file, turning and looping, doing a lazy barrel roll just for the sheer joy of it, exposing his cool belly to the warm suns for a moment, a flash of whirling motion and warmth, and dove lower, the terrain getting closer, craggier, black rock breaking through the snow in spots, until the rising cliffs fell away abruptly, like the end of a long road, falling into a wave-edged ocean, whitecaps like a lacy border frilling the shore.  Wing loved that, the way your belly seemed to fall with the falling cliffs, swooping down to skim over the water. It was bright, the morning sun casting gold sequins on the dark ocean, dotted with little white diamonds, that as he swept closer resolved to little shapes made of ice, petals of frozen water in fibrous white sheets, as though some ancient god had strewn the water with flowers in celebration.

It felt like celebration, and in the memory, Wing flipped to his side, letting one wingtip slice into the cold water, feeling it part and spread in ripples over the smooth, glittering surface, setting the frost flowers dancing. 

Wing paused the file, looking up at Drift, to see such longing, something beyond a hunger, a need for beautiful things, a need for joy, that had just been awakened.  Drift shifted, aware he was being looked at, trying to push the naked longing from his face and failing.  “…don’t have anything like that,” he croaked, finally. 

“I know,” Wing said. “It’s why I wanted to share it with you.” 

And he felt a bubble of envy rise in Drift’s mind, he could see it pass over the other’s mouth, the lip plates tightening, before burning off, melting away.  “I don’t have anything like this,” Drift said, his voice unsteady, an admission, almost ashamed.  And Wing felt his spark break, and he wondered for a klik if it had been the right thing, to show something so alien to Drift.

No, it was right. Drift could maybe see, now, what the world, what life, could look like, could be like, outside of the war, away from the war.  Wing could see the beauty taking hold in him, something stretching long, fine but sturdy roots down into the soil of Drift’s mind. 

“I’d still like to see.”  An offer, an admission of curiosity. He wanted to know Drift better, to know his world, however dark it was, however violent. It had created Drift, intense, dangerous and yet vulnerable.  

Night had fallen, or rather, swept in the subterranean city like a gown of rich velvet.  Around them, the Glass Gardens had become a fantasia of colored lights, sculptures like trees casting prisms of light like a fairy palace onto the crystal pavements.  And Drift sat, hand out, connected to Wing for a long moment, staring around the gardens as though seeing them for the first time, his optics lighting from within, as though sparked by beauty. And he moved, the quick, feral move of someone trying to outrun second thoughts, his hand flicking open his own jack. "Maybe you can find something beautiful in it," he said, like a reason. 

  
And Wing looked at Drift, sitting surrounded by light, the scowl melted from his face for the first time, shy and hopeful, as he reached for his own cable.  "I already have."  

 


End file.
